But His Sight
by AndSheWasBeautiful
Summary: "I am empty, girl. I have nothing to take from this meaningless world and nothing to give. You would do well to remember this." There was no justice in this world - his eye did not see it, and therefore it did not exist. His eye saw what Hueco Mundo had done to Inoue Orihime. And it annoyed him. ...He was almost certain that was it. - Ulquihime, sprinkles of Grimmhime later.


**What is a heart?**

* * *

Wide eyes, copper hair, pale skin, rosy cheeks.

Bloody lips, broken nails, bruising flesh, battered spirit.

Separate they meant very little, as did much in this troublesome lifetime.

Together, they succeeded in piquing his interest just enough to mildly annoy him.

The only emotion he has ever felt. Annoyance.

Annoyance at Yammy's idiocy, annoyance at Grimmjow's crudeness, annoyance at Kurosaki's foolhardy sense of justice.

There is no justice in this world - his eye does not see it, and therefore it does not exist.

His eye sees what Hueco Mundo has done to Inoue Orihime.

And it annoys him.

He is almost certain that is it.

"Ulquiorra?"

His glance flickers back to her, gazing at him with that look caught between careful hesitation and genuine concern. She is a little fool, this human child. No matter how many times he berates her, tortures her, mocks her, she still cannot help but have a deep concern for him. It is in her nature, to care for others without a second thought, and he supposes no matter how much an individual mistreated her, she would always possess that immovable force of genuine concern.

Perhaps if one were to mistreat Kurosaki, this concern would be abandoned.

"Yes?"

His voice is cool and soft, echoing off the smooth stone of her chambers, caught in the stagnant air of Las Noches.

Her lips twist for a moment, as though she is biting back words, her steely grey eyes wide and shining. She is fighting some sort of internal battle, this little girl, and he feels that annoyance rise as he wonders why she cannot just spit out what she wants to say.

"Speak freely, woman," he says, his voice low and purposeful and he watches her neck as she gulps hurriedly, feeling the moisture of the perspiration raise on her skin in the air. Her fists clench and she looks away from him, a swish of that coppery mane sending a sweet smell rippling in his direction.

He can see it, that smell, fragrant and light, engulfing him all at once in a strange, hypnotic fashion and he almost raises a hand to hurriedly sweep it away before it can alter his senses, but it is gone as her locks of red settle on her shoulders. Another annoyance.

"I was going to ask how you were, but it was just out of force of habit," she says, quietly, brokenly, trying her damndest to hold back the tremble her lips make as she remembers the habits gained in the World of the Living. He pauses a moment taking in her hunched over little form, as she turns from him and settles herself down on the low riding sofa that rests against the far wall. He inclines his head slightly.

"You have not asked me before."

She seems surprised that he has spoken again, instead of simply sweeping from her chambers as though he had never been present, and he puts it down to the niggling annoyance that he cannot leave without finishing the conversation, without understanding why it is she brings this about.

She shakes her head.

"No... I haven't."

There it is again that silence, solid and smothering, suddenly all he can hear in these halls - broken only by the soft breaths from the girl as her chest rises and falls almost... temptingly.

Just as he is about to launch himself from the room as fast as is possible for him to move, she parts her lips again, peachy and full and torn from weeks of worrying her front teeth against them.

"You looked sad today."

"Sad?" he fires the word back at her, as much bewilderment as is possible to be found within the Emptiness that makes up his entire being ebbing into the word. His eyes watch her warily and she fixates her own large ones on the floor and smiles softly, sadly.

Sadly.

"Yes. Sad," she says, glancing at him from below her long lashes for a moment before standing from the sofa and making her way over to the solitary window within her chambers. The moon is a permanent crescent hanging in the sky, the sands of Hueco Mundo dancing by in the soft breeze of eternal night. Her forehead rests against the bars and she sighs, a deep, heavy one, her hands coming up to grasp the cold metal with such vigour he is sure her brittle little human bones will splinter the flesh that protects them.

"It is difficult, to be sad, when one feels nothing at all, isn't it girl?"

He watches her fists unclench and she moves a trembling hand to her cheek. He smells the saltiness of her tears in the air, tastes it on his own lips.

"I couldn't agree more, Ulquiorra."

He had not meant for it to sound as it did. Like he empathised with her, like he wanted to be able to feel sadness, both his own and that of others, to express emotion beyond unyielding, bitter emptiness. The truth was, he didn't. He had never felt anything other than the cool, softness of unending emptiness and he preferred it this way.

And then he felt annoyance. Contradictory. Small, irking, like salt rubbed into a paper cut and he wondered had he ever truly felt anything more than that in all his years as a Hollow. Her very being annoyed him. Her existence, her useless tears and pathetic gaze, her feeble mewls of self-pity, like an infant-

"Now you seem angry."

He is at her side then, not in a flash-step, but in two long, quick strides, the heat from her body uncomfortable against his own chilly, alabaster form. He reaches up slowly, deliberately, as she sniffs, something very broken and desperate in those large, gentle, eyes. He stops his long fingers just a breath from her pale neck, the dark purple of her jugular lingering just moments from the crush of his currently stifled reiatsu.

"I am empty, girl. I have nothing to take from this meaningless world and nothing to give. You would do well to remember this."

His words are softer than he intends them to be, and why he does not snap out of her reach he will never know. Instead he pulls his hand away, and stands stationary as Inoue Orihime reaches her own hand up, gingerly, carefully, with all the trepidation of a child extending its fingers to a feral beast. Her fingertips only have to brush his jaw for the most fleeting of seconds, for his skin to feel red hot and agitated.

Has anyone ever touched his face before?

"I don't believe that."

He turns then, swiftly and sharply from her side, striding from the room in fluid steps and pausing in her doorframe.

His mouth is dry, as he says;

"I will have someone bring your supper soon."

He leaves then, leaves her standing there by the window, her face turned from him, her heart hammering against her ribcage loud enough for him to hear the hurried thud of her blood in her veins.

He walks from her chamber, not too quickly not too slowly, and stops when he is a few hundred feet from her door. And he thinks.

Wide eyes, copper hair, pale skin, rosy cheeks.

Bloody lips, broken nails, bruising flesh, battered spirit.

His eye could see it all, and therefore it existed.

Emotions, _feelings_ cannot be seen.

He is almost certain.

He turns to gaze at her door.

* * *

 **What is a heart?**

* * *

I ship Orihime with next to anyone, but there is something special about this connection. Please leave some feedback if you can, I would really appreciate it. More soon.


End file.
